es."

She said her prayers and breathed a soft good-night to the fire. And
though she did not feel strange nor sleepy, and wondered about Betty and
a dozen other things, one of the last remembrances was the glimmer of
the candle on the wall, and the soft rustling of the blaze, that said
"Snow, snow, snow."

CHAPTER XI

A LITTLE CHRISTMAS

Sure enough, it snowed the next morning--one of the soft, clinging
storms that loaded every branch with a furry aspect, made mounds of the
shrubs, and wrapped the south sides of the houses with a mantle of
dazzling whiteness. Now and then a patch fell off, and a long pendant
would swing from the trees, and finally drop. It was a delight to see
them.

The breakfast was laid on the same small table in use last night, but
Cato brought in everything hot, and "waited" as Barby used at home.
Uncle Winthrop said she looked bright as a rose, and her cheeks had a
delicate pink.

Afterward he invited her in his study and told her she might look about
and perhaps find a book to entertain herself with while he wrote some
letters.

"Thank you. I hope I shall not disturb you."

"Oh, no." He felt somehow he could answer for her. She was so gentle in
her movements, and he really wanted to see how he liked having a little
girl about. There was a vague idea in his mind that he might decide to
have her here some day, since Miss Recompense had taken a sort of fancy
to her.

Oh, what a luxury it was to wander softly about and read titles and look
at bindings and speculate on what she would like! They had very few
books at Uncle Leverett's. Some volume of sermons, a few biographies
that she had found rather dreary, a history of the French-Canadian War,
and some of Poor Richard's Almanacs, which she thought the most amusing
of all.

There was a circulating library that Warren patronized occasionally.
There was also the nucleus of a free library, but so far people had been
too busy to think much about reading, except the scholarly minds. Books
were expensive, too, and very few persons accumulated any stock of them.
Of Mr. Adams' collection some had come to him from his father, and
Cousin Charles, who had been called a "queer stick," had some English,
Latin, and Italian poets that he had bequeathed to the book lover.

Winthrop Adams was a collector of several things beside books. Now and
then at an auction sale on someone's death he picked up odd articles
that were of value. And so his